


White Nights: Omake

by spicedpiano, tahariel



Series: White Nights Universe [2]
Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Still Have Powers, Fictional Religion & Theology, Fluff, Gen, Genosha, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kid Fic, Kings & Queens, M/M, Omake, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-15
Updated: 2014-06-15
Packaged: 2018-01-19 13:32:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1471645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spicedpiano/pseuds/spicedpiano, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tahariel/pseuds/tahariel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Containing a series of White Nights omake: a variety of both canonical and non-canonical extras set in the White Nights universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dungeon for Monster

**Author's Note:**

> We'll note at the top of each chapter both the summary of that omake, as well as whether it's canonical or non-canonical. Rating will almost definitely increase as omake/chapters are added.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canonical.
> 
> Erik is sixteen and in his second year fostering at Shaw’s court, resentful, with an overblown ego and a very teenage determination toward vengeance. Charles is three and really likes blackberries.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out the superadorable fanart foxkurama did for bb!Charles and teen!Erik [here!](http://foxkurama.tumblr.com/post/84530013202/white-nights-omake-for-baby-charles-his)

It is a beautiful sunny day in Westchester, which is as far South as one can get before finding oneself swimming in an ocean. When Erik looks north all he can see is cotton fields, perfect and pastoral, not even a shadow of mountains upon the horizon. Now more than ever, Erik is aware that he is a long, long way from home.

He keeps reminding himself that it’s only for one week, but even one week in such close quarters with Shaw is enough to have Erik feeling dirty, wishing he could peel off all his skin just so that there remains no part of him that Shaw has touched. For the most part, though, the King is engaged in matters related to the Crown -- off somewhere, signing papers that will take away thousands of lives. People are, effectively, being murdered at this very moment, even if they don’t know it yet, and here Erik is standing in the sunshine, warm and with a full belly, his sword still safely sheathed.

It only makes him more determined to tear Shaw limb from limb the second the opportunity presents itself, and to be twice as vicious about it, to make up for the fact that right now, at age sixteen and wearing the royal colours alongside his own House’s dark green, Erik is doing nothing to stop him. Can do nothing to stop him.

Someone brings him a wooden bowl of figs to eat and he turns them away, heading back inside instead. He avoids the part of the manor he’s familiar with and just wanders, but he can’t find any sufficiently dark and gloomy corner to stand in that will appropriately match the way he thinks he ought to feel at the moment. The architecture is bright and open, sunlight everywhere. It’s surreal. 

The best he can find is a library in the east wing with a door that actually shuts and a collection of books that rivals that of the fantasy libraries Erik has built in his own head, for when he’s Duke and can fill the rooms of Ironhold with whatever pleases him. There are no windows, presumably to keep the salt sea air from destroying the books, which suits Erik just fine. He settles down at the desk with a stack of interesting-looking titles to read, and hopes it takes Shaw’s men five hours to find him when they finally decide to go looking.

He’s been there maybe half an hour when he hears a rattle of the doorknob, and Erik sighs, composing his face for a non-apology -- but when the doorknob rattles again, then finally drops, the door swings open and -- there’s nobody there.

“Owww.”

Erik looks down, and there on the floor sitting on the threshold is a little boy who can’t be older than two or three, plump on his bottom with a determined look on his face.

Erik pulls a thread of iron from the inkwell on the desk and uses it as a bookmark, laying it across the page he’s on as he stands, expecting the child’s caregiver to come bustling up at any moment to collect him, ready with his own excuses. But instead the little boy clambers to his feet uninterrupted, and once he’s upright he toddles right into the library, ignoring Erik entirely as he heads for the far end of the room. The child is chestnut-haired and tousled-looking, with rosy cheeks and bright blue eyes that are large in his round face; his clothes are all well-made if dusty from his tumble, and it’s obvious he’s well-fed. This is a noble child, not a servant. What is he doing here alone?

“You shouldn’t be in here,” Erik says in his strictest tone, folding his arms across his chest. He’s fairly certain that much is true, even if it likely applies to himself as well. “Where is your nanny?”

He is not in any way prepared for the way the child _screams_ when he speaks, jolting like Erik’s shot him with a bolt of lightning and tripping over his own feet again when he tries to turn, staring at Erik with wide, frightened eyes; when Erik tries to say something else the child screams once more, and there is no way that nobody will hear it, and they’ll inevitably think Erik’s done something to him. Erik glances toward the door, half-expecting to see Shaw himself looming there, but it’s still empty. 

“Hush,” he says quickly, dropping down to squat on the child’s level, his sheathed sword clattering awkwardly against the flagstones. “Ssh. Quiet.” He glances at the door again before he tries to half-crawl forward, reaching for the child with one hand outstretched, palm-upward, as non-threatening as he knows how to be. “It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you, but you have to be _quiet now._ ”

The little boy’s lower lip wobbles, but he closes his mouth, and mimes something that Erik realises after a moment is meant to be buttoning it up.

“Yes,” Erik says, and it feels like he’s never been so relieved in his life as he shuffles forward again. “Good. Quiet.” He keeps one eye on the doorway as he draws close to the boy, but as far as he can tell no one has come running. His racing heart finally begins to slow but he doesn’t dare touch the child, not even when he’s close enough to. “Don’t do that again,” he says. 

The boy’s voice is high and piping, though muffled around the thumb still pressing it closed. “Are you monster?” he asks, utterly serious.

For fuck’s sake -- Magda always told him he terrified the children, but Erik hadn’t thought she really _meant_ it. 

“That depends on the definition of ‘monster,’ I suppose,” Erik says, but realises a second later that black humour is usually misplaced when it comes to the very young. “No. Not really. ...Are _you?_ ”

“No,” the little boy says indignantly, hand falling away from his mouth as he puffs up. “I can come in the libby. You can’t come in the libby. You got no head.”

Erik elects to pretend that everything the child says makes perfect sense, because otherwise he suspects he’ll only end up frustrated. “Right,” he says. “No head, not allowed in libby. But that’s our little secret, isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“Because otherwise I’ll turn _into_ a monster and eat you up.” It’s the first thing that comes to Erik’s mind, but it makes the boy squeak and hide his face, covering his eyes with his hands. “That was a joke,” Erik points out, but the clarification doesn’t do much good. “Look, don’t you … belong somewhere?”

The boy peeks at him from between his fingers. “Where?”

“I don’t know. With a nanny? Do you have a nanny?”

“Nanny boring. Charles go libby. Much better but monster,” the boy says, his little pudgy hands still on his face. “No Daddy. Where Daddy?”

Erik is so glad Ororo isn’t here, because she’d never let Erik forget about the time he convinced a Southern Duke’s child -- because what other noble child is looking for his father in the Duke’s library? Erik thinks he even recognises the child’s name -- that he was a monster. “Daddy is talking with the King,” Erik says. 

“Bleurgh,” says Charles, and makes a sicky face. Not as dumb as he looks, then, Erik thinks charitably.

“Yes. Bleurgh. Good job. Now come on, let’s get you back to the nursery.” Erik stands up, hands on his hips.

The sicky face turns mutinous, and Charles puts his hands on his own hips, pouting at Erik, head craned as far back as it will go. “No.”

“Yes,” Erik says. “You can’t run around by yourself, and it’s not my job to take care of you.”

“No. Boring. Go beach?” Charles asks, and he puts on a winsome look, big eyes wide and his head tipped to the side, the image of cuteness. He really is a handsome child, Erik thinks, even as exasperation rises inside of him -- no doubt that look works for him most of the time. “Beach!”

“No,” Erik says. “I’m not allowed on the beach.” Which isn’t true, but Charles doesn’t know that. Erik just hasn’t the faintest idea where the beach even is. “You’ll have to ask your nanny to take you, because I can’t.” 

Charles looks like he’s considering what Erik’s said, or at least Erik assumes that’s what he’s doing, pouty little mouth wiggling around thoughtfully from side to side before finally he says, “Pick me up?” 

Progress. Finally. Erik leans over and scoops the child up into his arms. He’s remarkably heavy, his little feet kicking at the pommel of Erik’s sword until Erik shifts him over to the opposite side of his torso. “There,” he says. “Now. Tell me where your nursery is.”

“Outside,” Charles says, and he’s clearly too young to know not to use a crafty tone of voice when he thinks he’s getting away with something.

“I’m not an idiot, you know,” Erik says. He carries Charles out into the hall and turns left, because left is as good as anything else. “If you don’t take me to the nursery, the monster might show up and eat you.”

The little body shivers in his arms, a soft little cheek coming to squish against Erik’s rougher one. “There, there,” Charles says, pointing at a door just down the hall.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” Erik is going to smell like baby for the rest of the day, he already knows it. He carries Charles down the hall to the door in question and knocks twice. When no one answers he opens the door and steps out into a long room, filled from end to end with armour and weaponry, all of it polished to a fine gleam.

“Down, down!” Charles exclaims, wriggling and trying to get free.

“I don’t think so,” Erik says, stepping back out into the hall and pulling the door shut, even though some part of himself, as enthusiastic as the child, still has a portion of his Gift locked inside and spreading out through the metal, hungry for it. He turns a severe expression toward Charles. “I don’t like being lied to, Charles.”

“Sword for monster,” Charles says, and sticks his thumb in his mouth.

“I _have_ a sword,” Erik says. “A second one would just be unwieldy. Also, the monster is immune to swords. Stop playing games and tell me where I’m supposed to take you.”

“Beach?”

Erik is never, ever going to have children. “No.”

Charles thinks for a minute, before pointing down the hall again. “There.”

Erik swallows the less-than-kindly thing on the tip of his tongue and just follows Charles’ direction, walking down the hall and placing his hand on the door knob. “This one?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you sure?”

Charles blinks, giving Erik a wounded look. “Uh-huh.”

Erik frowns but opens the door anyway. On the other side is a staircase leading downwards, which seems unlikely to be the nursery, given that they are on the ground floor already.

“You want me to take you down there and leave you, do you?” Erik says.

“No, silly,” says Charles. “Dungeon for monster.”

“Sounds a bit premature,” Erik says. “The monster hasn’t even done anything wrong yet.” He closes the door and shifts Charles in his arms so the boy’s legs are locked around his waist a bit further up; he’d been slipping. “I know, I’ll go and interrupt Daddy and the King and just _ask_ what I ought to do with you.”

“Daddy say, ‘Charles be good no play king,’” Charles says, frowning at Erik as though he’s suggested something deeply moronic. “King your daddy?”

Erik fights the look of revulsion before it can entirely make it to his face. “What? _No._ ”

“King wears big hat all gold.”

“Yes, you’re very smart.” Erik frowns, thinking. He could always try and find the kitchens; they’ll know where they usually send food for the children, and he can just get rid of Charles that way. Really, it’s a bit irresponsible, he thinks, for the child’s nanny to have let him go running off on his own. Erik’s not the worst thing Charles could have run into this week. Erik certainly doesn’t like the look of some of Shaw’s soldiers. Maybe Erik ought to wait for Westchester to be out before he does anything with Charles. If it were Erik’s place, after all, he’d see that nanny fired before he’d put his child back into his or her care.

“All right, tell me how to _really_ get there,” Erik says, already knowing Charles is just going to lead him astray again.

“Where?” Charles asks, and giggles so hard he collapses in Erik’s arms, his head on Erik’s shoulder and his whole body shaking.

What, Erik wonders, did he ever do to make this child think that he was not absolutely terrifying? 

“Your _nursery_ ,” Erik says, setting his free hand on Charles’ back in case the boy accidentally laughs himself out of Erik’s grasp and then cracks his head on the floor. Erik’s not keen on being charged with child murder, though he may commit it if Charles keeps trying his patience.

“Oh. There,” Charles says, pointing at the door at the very far end of the corridor, still snickering to himself.

“Truly, this time?” Erik asks, though his perfectly-arched brow goes to waste since Charles isn’t even looking at him, his face still half-buried in Erik’s shoulder.

“Is nursy.”

“All right,” Erik says dubiously, heading in the direction that Charles’ finger is pointing. He can hear the sound of people’s voices as they draw near, which is a good sign; if there are servants around, Erik may be able to trust Charles with one of them. He opens the door and blinks, holding up a hand to shield his eyes from the sudden onslaught of sunlight. 

There is a garden outside of the door, big and lushly green and rolling away from Erik’s feet, a thick lawn of grass surrounded by trees and flowers all swaying in the mild breeze in every colour imaginable. When he inhales there is a strong scent of roses, and in the trees he can hear birds singing, loud and cheerful, behind the sound of the group gathered around a set of wrought iron furniture off to the left. 

Erik recognises the unique shape and feel of that golden crown a split second before he sees it, and he’s about to turn and walk back inside when Shaw calls out his name.

“Erik! Erik, come over here, please.”

The group of people splits as if they all shared one mind, making room for Shaw to step forward from between them, smiling, a glass of pale amber wine in one hand. Erik goes, because secret traitor or not, one does not directly disobey one’s King. 

“Ah, and who have we got here?” Shaw says as his long fingers settle on Erik’s shoulder, familiar and heavy. “You found a friend?”

“Monster,” says Charles, but it sounds dubious.

Before Shaw can misinterpret, Erik explains: “He thinks that I’m a monster. I have no idea why, but he’s latched onto the idea and won’t let it go.”

Erik still doesn’t like the look in Shaw’s eyes, but Shaw turns his gaze away before Erik can interpret it enough to figure out if there’s something else he should have said instead. 

“Allow me to present Erik of House Lehnsherr,” Shaw says, introducing him to the knot of brightly-coloured Southerners around him. “Jacob’s boy, fostering with me since last May. He’ll be with us for the next two years as well, so you will all have plenty of time to get to know him before they steal him back to the forbidding North.” Shaw laughs, and his coterie echo him like a flock of brainless birds.

Erik doesn’t smile. He used to force himself, but lately he’s stopped bothering; no one has said anything about it, which makes Erik ashamed he even tried in the first place. Charles is shivering in his arms, and there’s no mistaking this for the giggles.

“Nice, strong young alpha,” Shaw says, his hand clapping on Erik’s shoulder once; Erik doesn’t flinch. “He’ll make a good warrior, like his father. Erik, you should join us, converse a little. It’s time you came out of your shell, got to know a few people.”

“I’m trying to get this child back to his nurse,” Erik says, suddenly supremely grateful for Charles’ presence. “They’ll be wondering where he is.”

“Oh,” Shaw says, waving his hand dismissively, “just leave him with me, it’s no bother. I’m sure his parents will be able to find him.”

A very quiet squeak emits from the child in his arms, and tiny hands clutch harder around Erik’s neck.

Erik forces his spine to bend into a shallow bow and he says, “Forgive me, your Majesty, but I really must take him.” He’s holding onto Charles so tight now that he worries he might be hurting him, but if he is the boy hasn’t given any sign of it. “I will return once I’ve put him back in his proper place.”

“So conscientious, our Erik,” Shaw says, but he releases Erik’s shoulder nonetheless and Erik backs away, keeping his gaze down so that none of them can see the murderous look in his eyes.

Instead of heading back inside Erik walks deeper into the garden, out of sight behind a thick stand of bushes, and Charles shudders, his breaths high and trembling against Erik’s throat. “Bad bad bad no.”

“Ssh,” Erik murmurs again, in case someone hears, although he doesn’t sense any metal close enough to indicate that may be the case. He rubs his hand up and down Charles’ spine, but that does little to settle the roiling in his own stomach. “Not bad,” because he can’t have Charles going back to his parents and making them think Erik’s been saying things to him about the King. Charles must have gotten ideas from Erik’s posture; Erik needs to pay better attention, because if a baby noticed, Shaw certainly did. “The King protects you. He makes sure you’re safe.” Erik pulls his head back to look at Charles’ face, meeting those big blue eyes, his voice stern. “You understand?”

“Noooo,” Charles says, shaking his head. “Down now?”

Erik kneels down in the grass and sets Charles on his feet. “Better? Don’t run off.”

But Charles is already toddling off towards the bushes, arms outstretched and making excited noises to himself. Erik swears under his breath and chases after him, trying not to draw too much attention to himself, which is difficult enough already when one is the sole Northerner at a garden party and thus taller than nearly everyone else present.

“Berries!” Charles exclaims when he reaches the bushes, and reaches out to pluck something dark and round from the tip of a branch, sticking it immediately into his mouth. “Mmmmm! Yum.”

“Charles -- _no_ , Charles, spit that out!” Erik grabs Charles and yanks him back up into his arms, half-convinced the child has gone and bloody -- bloody _poisoned_ himself on Erik’s watch, but when he’s got Charles’ face on a level with his own it’s clear that the purple smear on Charles’ lips is nothing but blackberry juice. Charles looks like he might cry. Erik sets him down again slowly, feeling a bit abashed and grateful that no one else witnessed his sudden panic. “Sorry,” he mutters to Charles, hoping this doesn’t mean Charles is going to start screaming again. “Don’t cry?”

“Berry,” Charles says, and it seems like putting him back down was enough, because he’s smiling again, grabbing another blackberry from the bush and putting it in his mouth. “Yum, careful, is sharp! Erik berry?”

For a moment Erik’s confused, because he’s certain he never told the child his name, but then he remembers: Shaw. “Right,” Erik says, “Very well,” and lets Charles hand him a hot, squishy blackberry, half-mashed from his careless palm, staining the tips of Erik’s fingers as he pops it into his mouth. It bursts, tart and sweet on his tongue, surprisingly good.

Once he’s swallowed Erik rises back up to standing, peering around at the people milling about, trying to tell if there’s anyone here who might be able to help him get Charles back to his parents. It’s impossible to tell, though; outside, the scents of alpha and beta and omega and the blooming flowers are all too muddled for him to suss out anyone who smells like they might be related to the little omega boy currently stuffing berries into his mouth next to Erik’s knee. 

“Nanny coming,” Charles says eventually, looking up at Erik, his entire lower face purple.

“Where?” Erik asks. He scoops Charles back into his arms, balancing him on one hip as he scans the garden, looking for anyone dressed in servants’ clothes.

There’s a strange, far-off sound like a bird’s call, but nothing more.

“Listen,” Charles says, cupping a hand to his ear. Then he practically deafens Erik by howling at the top of his lungs, a sound like a hound puppy. “Awoooooooooo!”

Erik nearly loses his balance; several passerby turn and look at them, the slim alpha boy wearing a sword and carrying a berry-stained toddler in his arms, looking wide-eyed and shifty, half-expecting someone to swoop down on them and tell them off. “What’s wrong with you?” he snaps a second later, only realising he’s whispering after he’s said it.

Charles sniffles, inhales, and starts crying right as a gangly ginger teenager shoves his way through the bushes, a despairing look on his face that turns sour when he sees Charles and Erik, Charles’ hands on Erik’s face trying to push him away. “What have you done to him?”

“What have _I_ done to him?” Erik all but bites out, blocking Charles’ small hands with his own. “You’re the one letting him wander around the manor all by himself! If I hadn’t found him, he’d have been on his own for almost an hour. Anything could have happened.”

“Seaaaaaan,” Charles cries, twisting in Erik’s arms to reach towards the other teenager, who comes forward to take him with a frown on his freckled face.

“Charles always wanders off, no matter what I do,” the ginger boy, presumably Sean, says, scowling at Erik. “Everyone knows he does, and we’ve tried keeping him in, but he always gets out -- in any case he always goes _to_ someone, he doesn’t just wander at random.”

Erik frowns, trying to contain the sudden surge of anger that doesn’t have any outlet, battering against the inside of his skin. “Not this week, he doesn’t,” Erik says, and he doesn’t like taking advantage of omegas by using this tone of voice with them, but right now he doesn’t fucking care if it comes out sounding like an order. “I don’t want to see him out alone for the rest of the time we’re here. You keep your eyes on him at all times, do you hear me? At _all_ times! Or I’ll make sure you never find paying work again anywhere from Westchester to the Northern glaciers.”

Sean looks like he wants to argue, but in the face of all that alpha aggression doesn’t dare; instead he just holds Charles closer and nods stiffly, ignoring the way Charles is smearing his purple mouth all over Sean’s white shirt as he cries.

Erik glances one last time at Charles, still not entirely convinced he ought to be leaving the child alone and virtually helpless with this boy, but Charles is cuddled right into Sean’s arms and seems comfortable enough there even while bawling, so he just nods once and sends Sean away, watching them retreat through the garden, Charles’ eyes peering at him over Sean’s shoulder for a moment before they vanish behind a grove of orange trees.

Erik waits several seconds, his pulse pounding in his veins, before he steps back out himself and returns to Shaw’s side.

~*~


	2. An Appropriate Proposal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A year before the beginning of _White Nights_ , Charles' stepfather receives a significant letter. Canonical.

It would be more exciting to be going back to court for his eighteenth birthday if Charles couldn’t hear Kurt thinking speculatively about which alphas will be there, how to dress him and display him like a piece of meat to get the highest number of competing bids for Charles’ hand in marriage. As it is, Charles is forced to overhear the same sort of mental calculations over and over again the entire way to Hammer Bay, trapped in the carriage with Kurt for mile after mile and feeling rather like an animal being taken to market.

Sit up straight, Charles. Do as you’re told, Charles. Look pretty, Charles. And never so much as a flicker of a thought that Charles might be dangerous if he chose to be.

He does, at least, get a night to rest and recover from the journey when they arrive before Kurt has him dressed in finery and takes him to be presented to the King. Charles feels hot and constricted in the silks and linens of his breeches and shirt, the waistcoat and frock coat keeping all of the fabric in tightly to his body, but he walks neatly down the colonnaded walkways on Kurt’s arm anyway, and thanks the Gods that it’s Spring.

“Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to,” Kurt says when they’re waiting outside the throne room, his hand squeezing painfully tight around Charles’ shoulder. “Don’t meet the King’s eyes unless he orders you to, and for fuck’s sake, don’t make him fall for you, because the last thing I need is for you to become the King’s castoff, or worse, bear him a bastard.”

Charles can’t quite hold back at that, looking sharply up at Kurt. “I’m not an imbecile, Kurt, I know well enough my value to you is in the pricetag you can put on a virgin.”

“And put that acid tongue away before I cut it out,” Kurt snaps, fingers tightening until Charles can feel his bones shifting and bruises forming underneath that brutal grip. “Behave yourself like a proper damn omega for once.”

Charles is about to reply, but then the enormous double doors creak and swing open, revealing the room beyond, a long velvet carpet leading to the throne, and the King.

The throne is a monstrosity of marble and gold, carved with masterful craftsmanship into the shape of a dead dragon and with a seat made of the dragon’s bent hind leg, the backrest the dragon’s side and above it a splayed wing stretching high toward the vaulted ceiling; even as a child Charles hated it, found the empty golden eyes disturbing, but nothing so disturbing as the mind of the man sat in that throne, looking at them both over steepled fingers, a small smile curving his thin lips.

“Marko,” the King says once he’s gestured for Kurt and Charles to straighten from their bows. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen your family at court. What brings your return?”

“Your Majesty,” Kurt says, and his voice has become suddenly oily, almost obsequious. “You are too kind. I’m happy to announce that I have brought my omega stepson to court to find him a good husband, as he has recently come of marriageable age. He is of the Xavier house, of Westchester -- brother to our future Duchess, as I’m sure you know.”

Shaw’s smile widens slightly, almost condescending, and he says: “Come here, child. Let me look at you.”

A wild, sick shudder runs through Charles’ body, and he swallows hard before he makes himself walk forward, Kurt coming along at his side, a proprietary hand curling around Charles’ elbow. It feels both like a very long walk and a very short time before he is stood at the foot -- literally -- of the dragon throne, staring at the carpet and trying to block out the nauseating feeling of the King’s mind.

“Hmm.” He can hear Shaw shifting in his throne, and then: “Look at me.”

Charles lifts his head and meets the King’s eyes, setting his spine to steel. Shaw’s irises are a pale blue, almost colourless, alert and assessing as they flicker around Charles’ face, more analytical in his examination than anything else. Somehow this cool, bloodless judgement is even worse than Kurt’s moneygrubbing -- Shaw doesn’t even see Charles as a person, but as an object to be distributed, possibly as he sees fit. Charles wants to be sick when the King starts imagining Charles on his back being fucked by a myriad of different court alphas, speculating on which would enjoy him the most.

“Yes,” Shaw says at last. “He’ll do well here, I think. There are plenty of young alphas here at court who will be interested in this sort of thing.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Kurt bows deeply, as though this is an enormous compliment.

“Bring him with you to the dinner tonight,” Shaw says, leaning back at last. “I’ll seat the two of you with some of my alphas and let them take a look at him.”

It sounds horrendous, but Charles can only lower his eyes again and bow when Kurt squeezes his elbow again, fingertips digging into the soft skin of his inner forearm. “Thank you, your Majesty,” he murmurs, hoping that perhaps at least some of the alphas will be both willing and able to carry on an interesting conversation, if nothing else.

“I look forward to seeing you about court more often, Marko,” Shaw says, and he moves his hand to dismiss them.

Charles swallows again, and he can feel the King’s amusement at Charles’ fear all the way back out of the throne room, even as he uses telepathy very very quietly to keep Kurt from noticing the way Charles is trembling. Better to appear unfazed instead of giving him a weakness to exploit, but it’s no good if he draws the attention of Emma Frost.

“All right,” Kurt says as soon as they’re out of the immediate area, almost dragging Charles along back towards their rooms. “I’ll call your valet in to get you ready for dinner this evening.”

“It’s not even midday,” Charles protests, trying to dig his heels in, but Kurt is too strong.

“If I see even a hair out of place, I will make you regret it,” Kurt says through gritted teeth, and, as usual, gets his way.

 

~*~

Charles spends a good three months at the capital enduring more of the same, and after a while it all blends into one long drudgery of parading around on Kurt’s chaperoning arm, having his teeth inspected and his hooves checked for signs of hoofrot, he supposes, or at least that’s how it feels. Shaw’s coterie of young alphas are almost fighting for Kurt’s attention and favour, being played off against one another, and at times Charles is alarmed enough to worry it might come to blows -- but none of them do anything to try and curry his favour, because it is very clear to all of them how much say Charles is intended to have in the matter of his husband -- not, of course, that he intends to let Kurt decide for him, but they don’t need to know that.

If Charles were vain, and not a telepath, he would be flattered; however, overhearing that whoever marries him will be freed from Shaw’s more intimate circle rather undermines any pleasure he might have taken from it.

As it is, he’s starting to despair of his options by the time that the letter and parcel arrive for Kurt, forwarded on from Westchester with one of their own trade caravans and handed over by a local lad Charles vaguely recognises.

“Let’s see what this is,” Kurt grunts once the boy is gone, levering himself up onto his elbow from the chaise longue he’d been reclining on, all but snoring in the mid-afternoon heat. “Hmm, well! The seal looks to be from Ironhold. I wonder what that sly bastard Lehnsherr wants?”

Charles stays where he is, sat in the windowseat looking out at the gardens below his window, cooling himself with a broad leaf-shaped fan that does little more than move the hot air around. Outside there are servants working and nobles strolling the gravelled paths in the summer sunlight, and despite the heat Charles wishes he could join them -- but Kurt refuses to stir out of doors in the daytime at the moment, saying Charles will get a sunburn and ruin his face.

“Well indeed,” Kurt says in an entirely different tone of voice, and when Charles look back his stepfather looks gobsmacked, eyebrows climbing well towards his receding hairline and lips parted in surprise. The parcel is still sat in his lap, unopened. “Look at this, Charles -- clearly you’re worth more than I thought! Lehnsherr wants to marry you!”

Charles blinks, then stares, surprised enough himself to wear much the same expression as Kurt. “What?”

“Take a look,” Kurt says, and hands the letter over with a flourish.

The paper is thick and expensive, not re-used like so much parchment Charles sees but fresh and new, if battered a little by its long journey; the words upon it are penned by a strong hand, brisk and sharp with no flutes or foibles to the writing.

 

> _To Kurt Marko, Duke Regent of Westchester -_
> 
> _News has reached the North that your stepson, Charles Xavier of Westchester, is a noble omega of marriageable age seeking engagement with an eligible and appropriate alpha. I understand that he is an unusually well-bred omega of many talents, and I would like to formally extend my interest in the unlikely event he has not yet found a suitable match._
> 
> _Westchester and the North have long had friendly relations, and I believe such an arrangement would further both our interests. I have enclosed with this letter items which I hope will demonstrate my good intentions and sincerity._
> 
> _Please respond at your earliest convenience. Regardless of your answer, I hope you will keep these gifts as a token of good faith._
> 
> _Signed by his seal, Erik, Duke of the North, Warden of Ironhold and the Icelands_

 

Charles stares at the letter for what feels like a long time, thinking through the possibilities and trying to decide how he feels about this. On the one hand, Erik Lehnsherr of the North is the second most powerful alpha in the kingdom after the King himself, and is well known for his strong Gift with metal of all kinds; he’s also well known for chewing against the King’s leading rein on him, all of which counts in his favour. However, Ironhold is probably the furthest away from the Capital that you can go and still be in Genosha, and thus the furthest away from where Charles most needs to be to carry out his plans.

That said, Lehnsherr also holds the lion’s share of the national army outside of that which belongs directly to Shaw, and that in and of itself makes him a valuable potential asset to Charles and his group.

Yes, Charles thinks finally, slowly rolling the letter back up into a cylinder, if it must be anyone, then Lehnsherr is a very good choice. At least he is probably someone Charles won’t have to influence all of the time to make sure they follow the most advantageous route.

“Look at these,” Kurt says, along with a rustling of cloth, and holds up a beautiful necklace to the light, admiring its shine with characteristic greed. “He’s sent some handsome gifts.”

“I thought you favoured Essex,” Charles says, keeping his tone neutral.

Kurt shoots him a disgusted look. “Don’t be stupid, boy, Lehnsherr has three times the wealth of Essex and the ear of the King to boot. If Lehnsherr wants you I’d stick you in the back of a wagon tonight if I didn’t want to negotiate better terms first.”

Charles affects an uneasy expression, shifting in his seat -- it’s pathetic, really, how easy it is to manipulate Kurt without even needing telepathy to do it. “This all seems very fast -- are you sure?”

“Don’t you dare second guess me,” Kurt snarls, fist closing around what looks like a pair of cufflinks, and he gets to his feet, getting so close to Charles that he’s all but shouting in his face. “You’re marrying Lehnsherr, if I have to fly you up there on my own damn back!”

“As you say,” Charles murmurs, trying to sound cowed, but on the inside he feels a sense of bitter if growing victory.

 

~*~


	3. A Lesson in Pain and Anger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Canonical.
> 
> Erik is seventeen and King Sebastian's favourite of his little group of alphas. But being his favourite is an unpleasant job.

Erik hates everything about the Capital, from the stink of its streets to the florid extravagance of the palace’s trappings. He’s been here three years, and rather than accustoming himself to the South, he’s simply allowed his hatred for it to ferment, aging like fine wine into something heady and intoxicating. He’s fortunate that the court nobility interprets his hostility as Northern stoicism rather than anything as malevolent as the truth, which is that he takes great pleasure imagining all their heads on spikes.

It’s worst when he’s in the presence of the King, which is often. Erik does his best to be tedious and dull, but still Shaw doesn’t tire of his company, or his audience for events like this: sparring practice between the King and one of his soldiers, a well-built man named Essex. Erik and the other young alphas at court for the season have been watching the fight for the past hour. For the most part, it’s been rather like watching a cat playing with its food. Shaw lets Essex get blows in wherever Essex likes. Of course, they only serve to strengthen Shaw’s ability, and in the end Essex is taken down with a single blow to the shoulder and the snap of a broken collarbone.

The others applaud, excited, proud of their King. Erik sits where he is, staring stonily at the man lying injured on the ground, white bone blazing in the sunlight where it’s split out of his flesh, slowly healing thanks to Essex’s regeneration factor. Shaw on the other hand is wiping down his practice blade with a soft cloth, not even looking at Essex now that he’s finished with him.

“Come along then,” Shaw calls to the group of them, glancing up at his audience with one of his warm, false smiles that doesn’t match the gleam of vicious satisfaction in his pale eyes. “Back to my rooms. Erik, you may carry my sword and shield.”

_May_ , like Shaw’s granting him a boon. Erik ignores the jealous looks he’s receiving as he gets up from his seat and walks toward the sparring pit, letting Shaw hand him his heavy practice sword and shield. Erik would rather float them along with his power than touch anything Shaw has touched, but that kind of rudeness doesn’t go unnoticed here. Nor does meeting the King’s gaze, but Erik does it anyway, staring straight into those flat eyes as he swings the shield around onto his back.

Shaw just gives Erik a knowing look, letting out an amused snort, then raises his hand to flick Erik hard between the eyebrows.

It takes a second for Erik to realise that Shaw hasn’t put any of his power behind it; his heart is pounding a little in his chest, and the point has been made quite clear. Shaw could easily have killed him just now for his insolence.

“Lead on,” Shaw says, and keeps his eyes on Erik’s, almost daring him to look away.

And -- Erik hates himself for it, but he does. Has to, to obey the order, turning to walk just in front of Shaw across the courtyard toward the cool shade of the palace walls. He tells himself he’ll more than make up for this, for all these times he’s allowed himself to be subjugated by Shaw, that he will keep tally of each chip against his pride and pay them back hundredfold when the time comes for war. 

He can feel Shaw’s gaze on the back of his neck, burning twin holes into his skin as they walk down the marbled halls toward the King’s suite. How ridiculous they must look all the time, Erik thinks, a gaggle of adolescent alphas all trailing after their ruler like baby ducklings, begging for the slightest positive attention, or perhaps simply too afraid of risking the negative. At seventeen Erik is the oldest among them now, and where the rest of them are nobles’ spawn just visiting with their families for the summer, Erik is effectively Shaw’s ward. The other children crave the kind of regard they think Shaw lavishes upon him, but they don’t understand, not really; don’t know what it means. Erik wishes he could tell them exactly how far Shaw’s affections extend, watch the shock and horror slowly sink in as they realize what’s really happening -- the kinds of games they themselves have already unwittingly begun to let Shaw play.

The royal suite is vast and airy and vulgar, everything about it bombastic and overdecorated to the point of tawdriness; what could have been a beautiful set of rooms has been overlaid with swathes of red silk and gold leaf, giving it the feeling of being inside the mouth of a giant beast, about to be swallowed. Shaw walks past Erik into his bedroom, and the ducklings follow, knowing better than to wait outside on Shaw’s pleasure. He must be attended to at all times, observed and actively feared every minute of every day.

“Erik, you may help me with my armour,” Shaw says, coming to a halt in the centre of the room and holding up his arms to give access to the buckles that fasten it tightly to his body.

Erik puts the practice sword down on the appropriate table, the shield rising up, carried by his Gift to hang from its peg on the wall. His expression is carefully, neutrally blank as he steps forward, the other alphas spreading to let him pass. Up close, Shaw smells like perspiration and the grease that’s used to treat armour. The lamellar are dragon-bone, not metal, as are the buckles; Erik always flinches when he has to touch it, even if he knows the dragon whose skeleton made these is long since dead. He takes in a shallow breath and holds it there in his lungs as he reaches for the first set of clasps, tugging at the leather strap to loosen it.

“So,” Shaw says, ignoring Erik entirely in favour of addressing the other young alphas, who have gathered in a group in front of him, and who sit when he gestures at them, taking seats on chairs and couches and the rug on the floor. “Tell me, my boys -- how could Essex have bested me today?”

There’s a moment of silence before Victor says, from the back, “He couldn’t, Sire. Every time he hit you he made you stronger.”

Erik can hear the smile in Shaw’s voice, pleased by this answer. “Correct. Just like this nation! Every time we are struck we strike back twice as hard, and twice as effectively, and that is what I have done to make Genosha great -- given the kingdom the reflection of my own Gift so that we can expand and take control of what is rightfully ours. The lifeblood of this nation is conquest, and the strong devour the weak.”

Erik is grateful he’s standing with his face turned away from Shaw’s, because he cannot entirely hide the disgust that twists his mouth, and can’t at all keep himself from muttering, “A telepath could do it.”

“What was that, Erik?” Shaw asks, and his voice is pleasant and calm, even as he turns to look at Erik. Concealed from the others, his eyes are sharp and narrowed, a contained irritation in them that is focused entirely on Erik. “Do repeat for the rest of the class.”

Something cold curls like a fist in Erik’s chest, but there’s no taking it back, not now that it’s been said. He still has his hands on the buckles of Shaw’s gauntlet, and even if the others can’t see the way they’ve started to shake, Shaw can certainly feel it. But Erik lifts his chin all the same and says, louder this time, bolder: “A telepath could do it. A telepath could kill you.”

Shaw’s smile is sickeningly paternal, even as he claps a hand on Erik’s shoulder and squeezes, at first normally, then harder, fingers digging in hard enough to leave bruises. Erik has to fight not to make a sound. “Telepathy is outlawed because telepaths are dangerous mind criminals,” Shaw says in a perfect semblance of his normal tone, but his grip on Erik tells a different story. “A telepath could kill me, Erik, you’re quite right. But we are talking about Nathaniel Essex, who is not a telepath. _Relevant_ contributions only, if you please.”

Shaw releases his grip on Erik’s shoulder and pain rushes in to fill the gap, heat bursting down his arm toward his very fingertips. Erik nods as if suitably chastened, and finishes with the gauntlet, letting the dragon-bone plates drop into the palms of his hands. He’ll pay for his insolence; he’s brutally, terrifyingly certain of it. But it’s worth it, just to hear Shaw admit he has a weakness of any kind, never mind that this one weakness has been eradicated from the earth along with the rest of Erik’s people.

“Now, who will take my armour down to the armoury for me, once Erik has finished his task?” Shaw asks, suddenly genial again as he turns back to the rest of his little coterie of teenagers, ignoring Erik once again.

Erik finishes as quickly as he can, collecting the armour and passing it over to fourteen-year-old Rémy LeBeau, who has volunteered to carry it away. Without the protection of dragon-bone Sebastian Shaw is deceptively slim, and in these tight-fitting practice clothes he wouldn’t even pass for a King -- just some alpha soldier, a snake that doesn’t advertise its venom.

The evening passes, as it often does, painfully.

The next day Shaw takes them all out to the archery range to practice, his manner cheerful and self-satisfied as he tells them to set themselves up and shoot until their arms are too tired to draw the string. He wanders up and down the line behind them as though he’s the archery master himself, hands folded behind his back and a considering look on his face as he observes.

“Your posture is entirely wrong, Erik,” Shaw says when he reaches him at the end of the line, frowning at Erik as though he’s been disappointed. “I thought we had improved this, but clearly old habits die hard.”

Erik clenches his jaw and shifts his weight, drawing the bow again and letting his arrow loose. It goes wide at first, but Erik’s power latches onto the iron arrowhead and draws it back, forcing it to hit perfect center on the target. “I can’t see why it matters,” he says, reaching for another arrow and making a point of _not_ looking at Shaw. “I’m Gifted. I’ll never miss a shot.”

“Erik, Erik, Erik. You’re missing the _point_ ,” Shaw says, and he steps in to take the arrow from Erik’s hand, rapping his chest with the sharp tip. “Too practical like most Northerners to see that doing things _correctly_ is just as important as doing them _successfully_. If you can’t be bothered to shoot properly then what point is there in doing it at all? Your poor form will scream out to everyone that you couldn’t give a shit about learning to do things properly, and will make you look sloppy. Draw your bow.”

Erik takes the arrow when Shaw hands it back to him, notching it into the bow and drawing the string back, the fletching scraping slightly against his cheek. He holds the pose for inspection, although the tension Shaw’s closeness has wrought in his body makes it difficult to maintain any kind of posture at all, his stomach clenching and twisting uncomfortably.

“Here,” Shaw says, and steps up behind Erik’s body, taking hold of Erik’s arms and _twisting_ his torso into place, feet kicking at Erik’s until he moves those, too. “Now. Isn’t that better? Release.”

Erik does. The arrow looses, and this time Erik intentionally sends it low, burying the head in the grass below the target. His every muscle is tight, Shaw’s fingers pressing down over the bruises from yesterday’s punishment, and it’s a struggle not to flinch away. 

“Perhaps,” Erik says in a steady, emotionless voice, “I am simply not cut out for such elegant Southern arts as these.”

“Perhaps you should stop deliberately being difficult,” Shaw says, and his hands squeeze tightly again, keeping Erik where he is, pinioned in Shaw’s grip, Shaw’s breath hot on the back of his neck. “Life would be much easier for you, Erik, if you learned to _mind your betters_.” He twists his hands on Erik’s arms and the friction of the grip burns Erik’s skin, accelerated no doubt by Shaw’s Gift, until Erik makes a small sound of pain and Shaw lets go, stepping back.

“Do it again, properly,” he says, and his tone is so calm it’s as if nothing had happened at all.

Erik sets up his bow with another arrow and draws, paying close attention this time to the lines of his arms and the set of his hips. It’s hard _not_ to tense up, of course, when Shaw is watching, and when Erik’s arms still burn from his grip. But he draws anyway, letting out a long, slow breath, envisioning Shaw standing in front of the target in full royal regalia, imagines the arrowhead slicing through his smug face. Loose. He doesn’t touch the arrow with his power at all this time, and it goes wide. Erik immediately tenses, reactively, but makes himself turn around and look at Shaw all the same, lips pressed tight together.

“Do you see why it is important to _practice_?” Shaw asks, still in that pleasant tone, and gestures at the quiver. “Without your powers you’re a terrible archer, and you rely upon them too heavily. Again.”

It’s a mighty change from Shaw’s usual rhetoric, which is all to do with strengthening one’s Gifts and using them creatively, but Erik knows better than to say so out loud. He reaches back for another arrow and nocks it, trying not to think about Shaw’s gaze watching his form, judging it. This time, when he looses, the arrow hits the edge of the board and lodges itself there -- but at least it’s hit the target at all.

“Better,” Shaw says, but in a tone that makes it very clear he’s damning Erik with faint praise. “Keep going until you can hit the centre third three times out of five. You may not think it, Erik, but I practice with the sword so that I can beat little pissants like Nathaniel Essex without wasting my Gift on him. You’re no good to me if all you can do is the same damn trick over and over again like a performing bear.” Shaw walks off down the line, hands folding behind his back, and Erik can hear him praising Victor for an excellent shot, tone far warmer than it was for Erik.

When Erik first came to Hammer Bay, he rejected all advice Shaw gave out of hand, hating him so strongly it clouded all reason. But over the past three years he’s learned that, for better or for worse, the Southern King wants Erik to be strong, if only so he’ll be a prize in Shaw’s armies. All the better if Erik pays attention, and turns these lessons against him one day.

He stays at the archery range until long after dark, and he doesn’t leave until he can hit the center target not three times out of five, but every single time. When he finally gets back to his rooms there’s a note on a silver salver by the door; Shaw wanting Erik to come to his suite as soon as he may, which means immediately that the message was sent, which could have been hours ago.

Erik crumples the note in his hand, ignoring the disapproving looks sent his way by a couple of noble passersby. Shaw hasn’t given him such an invitation in a week; it was too much to hope, Erik admits to himself, that Shaw had grown bored of him. 

He doesn’t bother changing out of his practice uniform. If he did, it would suggest that he tarried, and Erik doubts that would go over well given how much Erik’s already been pushing back against Shaw these past few days. He throws the note out a window as he passes a courtyard, watches it land in a fountain, fine ink immediately bleeding out into the clear water. 

The upper floors are lit only by candles this time of night, Shaw’s personal guard standing in position along the halls, hands resting on the hilts of their swords -- as if, Erik thinks bitterly, they don’t know perfectly well who he is and why he’s here. As if they think he has -- finally and prematurely -- decided this is the night he’ll slit Shaw’s throat. 

“Name?” Asks a guard at Shaw’s door, the same one who’s there every night; Erik only just manages not to roll his eyes.

“Lehnsherr.”

“Your business with the King?”

Erik keeps his spine straight, stiff. “He summoned me.”

The guard grunts, and his companion vanishes into Shaw’s suite. Erik stands there in the hall opposite the first guard, who stares directly at the center of Erik’s forehead, face as blank and hard as a stone’s. Erik stares back, right into his eyes, refusing to be the one to flinch away.

“Let him in, let him in,” Shaw’s voice calls from inside, dryly amused. “Erik, come in, my boy.”

Erik goes, stepping past the guards and into the warmly-lit interior of Shaw’s rooms. Shaw is sat at his desk, but he gets to his feet when Erik comes inside, walking over to him and clapping his hand on Erik’s shoulder to draw him over towards the seating area and its plush couches. “Erik, you’re very late,” he says, his tone chiding; not dangerous, not yet. “Don’t tell me you’ve been at the range all evening?”

“I took your advice, sir,” Erik says, sitting down only after Shaw does, the thick cushion dipping under their weight. He can feel the heat radiating from Shaw’s body, too-close, familiar, and tries not to shudder. “I practiced.” 

“Oh?” Shaw raises an eyebrow, mouth curving upward. “And how did you make out?”

“I hit the centre third every time, now. Without using my Gift.” It took him a long time to manage it, and his arms and back ache; he’s certain it will hurt to move tomorrow.

“Very good, my boy, that’s excellent news,” Shaw says, and he wraps his arm around Erik’s shoulders to give him a one-armed hug, shaking him a little. “Do you see now why I am so hard on you? I see such potential in you, Erik. I have to be hard on you because it’s the only way to bring it out.” His smile is warm but his eyes are still, as ever, utterly inhuman.

Erik can’t breathe with Shaw touching him, his heart stumbling hard and fast in his chest. Shaw’s knee is pressed against his own and it feels like the contact is burning a hole through his trousers, into his skin, down to the bone. “I will try harder,” he is able to say, and thank the dragons his voice doesn’t quaver. 

“And so will I,” Shaw says, and doesn’t let go.

~*~


End file.
